


Tweed Day

by thestanceyg



Series: Darcy Lewis April Challenge [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy makes poor choices that work out in the end, F/M, background Natasha, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestanceyg/pseuds/thestanceyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course there's a man passed out in front of her door when all she wants is a margarita, and of course Darcy can't help but decide to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tweed Day

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3!  
> holiday: Tweed Day  
> AU Prompt: I found you passed out in front of my door so I just dragged you into my home and put you on the couch please don’t scream.

Darcy sighed as she rounded the last turn in the stairwell.  Only eight more stairs stood between her and her floor.  It was then a scant seventeen steps to her apartment door, at which point she could make a margarita, throw off her shoes, and collapse onto the couch where she would proceed to ignore all the work in her bag.  This was all she wanted, so of course the world decided this was not to be.  

“Are you kidding me right now?” she asked the ceiling.  She closed her eyes and counted to ten.  When she was done she looked again at her door where an unknown man was now slumped.

Options.  What were her options?  She could call the police, but that would mean going back down the stairs because her building ate cell service.  Furthermore, it would take for-fucking-ever for the police to show up, during which time said man could disappear, making her look crazy.  Another option would be to call on Big Louie (his name choice-not hers), and ask him to move this guy somewhere (anywhere) besides in front of her door.  Except that was also no dice because it’s Tuesday, so that meant Louie was back on the night shift.  Maybe she could step over him if she got the door open?  And if she didn’t open the door all the way, maybe she could close it back on him?  That seemed like the only option, so she geared herself up to step over the rando, and went to the door.

Everything was fine until she looked down and saw that his shirt was caked in dried blood, and he looked like someone had beat him.  Her heart broke a little, and she couldn’t be quite as cold as her newly won city instinct told her she should be.  Instead she tried to rouse him, to no success.  She unlocked her door and his slumped body fell back into the opening.

She stepped over him and into her apartment.  She threw her things on the kitchen counter, then went back to the unconscious man.  She bent down and put her hands under his armpits and started pulling.  “Holy mother of Thor!” She grunted.  “You are seriously a million pounds.  Are you some sort of collapsed star?  Also, if your mind is somehow recording this conversation for later, remind me to tell Jane I made a star joke.”  She slowly worked until she had dragged him into the apartment and leaned him against the couch.

She considered him and the situation as a whole as she went to the freezer and took out a bucket of margaritas.  (What?  It was convenient.)  She grabbed a spoon and sat on the counter, thinking about what to do while she scooped margarita into her mouth.  She could call for medical help.  But he maybe didn’t have health insurance, and she might bankrupt him if she called an ambulance. Maybe she should investigate his hot body some more.  You know, for injuries.  She cleaned up her margaritas and went to the mystery man.

She decided to be adventurous and take off his bloody shirt.  Except the dried blood made that difficult.  She brought a bowl of water and washcloth over to him, carefully moistened the parts that were sticking until she was able to pull his shirt off, and threw that in the sink to soak.

She came back with clean supplies and set about cleaning all his wounds, applying creams and bandages as appropriate.  She contemplated his legs, but decided there was no way she was going to get his pants off without serious effort.  Besides, he might be commando underneath, and that wasn’t something she particularly was interested when he was passed out.  (When he woke up?  That was another story.  Dude was ripped.  If he had a decent personality, she might be willing to check out what was inside those pants.)

She threw a blanket over him, and got some notebook paper where she scrawled a note about what had happened.  She washed the shirt as best she could, and laid it out to dry.  She went to bed, carefully locking and barricading her door because she hadn’t completely lost her mind.

***

When she got out of the shower in the morning, she could tell that he was awake.  She threw up her hair, pulled on her outfit, and cautiously went to the kitchen where the man had his back to her as he cooked.

“Good morning,” he called over his shoulder.

“Uhh, hi.  I, umm, guess you got my note?”

“Yes, I did.  Honestly not sure how I ended up here.”  At that, he turned around to put a giant stack of French toast on the counter.  “You!” he exclaimed when he finally saw her.

Darcy squeaked. “What?!”

“You were in New Mexico,” he said, not asked.

“OH MY GOD,” she nearly screamed.  “You’re a jackbooted thug!  How did you find me here!”

“Well that explains plenty.”

“Ummm, excuse me?  How does this explain anything?”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?!  No!  I can’t afford a new one and I doubt you’ll give it back.  That _is_ you MO.”

Clint sighed.  “No, it’s not.  I just need to call my partner.  I promise to give it right back.  Besides, I owe you.  You took good care of me last night  It was a stupid thing to do, but it was nicely done.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Well, Professor Lewis, you should trust me because after I make that call, I plan on getting you back out of those clothes,” he stated plainly while raking his eyes over her.

“How did you know my name?”

He pointed at himself.  “Jackbooted thug.”

“And ‘professor’?”

“Tweed jacket.  Which, by the way, doing amazing things for me right now.”

She turned red, muttered something unintelligible, and then handed over her phone.

He took one more slow, assessing gaze over her, and then dialed.  “Hey Nat?  Fuck you.  Also, thanks.”


End file.
